There were three things I hated most in the world. The first was trying to get my parents to make an effort for something other than goats and parties and imported carpets. The second was all the snide remarks people made about Étienne when they thought he wasn’t listening. The last was Versailles. 

It was a mess of a place. All pompous men and women strutting around in ridiculous outfits, gambling and gossiping and wasting their lives away. But Renée was right. If we wished to gather information on Étienne’s mystery companion, the best place to do so was at Versailles. So, I allowed the servants to dress me, douse me in perfume, and pomade my hair. But I wasn't happy about it the entire afternoon, and I still wasn't happy about it now as I rode alongside Renée in the carriage.

“Look at this,” I said, flapping my satin sleeve around to watch the plume of cream lace hanging from the cuff. “This is horrendous. What is the point of this?”

Renée swatted my arm away, not bothering to respond. Unlike me, my sister lived for any excuse to show herself in public and had been pleased pink as a peach all day. She sat next to me smelling like someone had broken an entire bottle of rose perfume over her head, wearing a dress so wide, I was forced to sidle up against my side of the carriage like it was a long lost lover.

“You don’t think I look ridiculous?” I asked.

Renée shook her head. “I think it’s a shame.”

“What is?”

“I’m always forced to hear about how girls find you so dashing. But you never leave the house and have absolutely no idea how to talk to women. It’s a shame, is all.”

“I know how to talk to women!”

Renée scoffed, but before I could glare at her, we arrived at the palace stables. And then, an entirely new feeling washed over me as we exited the carriage and made our way to the front gates of Versailles, our heeled shoes clacking out of sync against the uneven cobblestone. Night had fallen on our ride over, and each window of the palace was alight with candle flame, encompassing the entire building in a glow so bright, it blotted out the nearby stars.

“Are you certain you need me here as well?” I frowned and shielded my face with the damned waterfalls of lace hanging from my sleeve. “I could wait in the carriage until you’re finished.”

Renée let out an impatient sigh. “I need you, Olivier. We’ll have the opportunity to ask far more people about last night if there are two of us.” 

“Fine.” I squeezed my eyes shut, willing away the bubble of apprehension building in my chest. It didn’t work, of course. It never did. 

Despite my offhanded attempt, the bubble of apprehension grew as the guards ushered us in. We crossed over the black and white tiled courtyard and entered Versailles through a set of canary yellow doors, finding ourselves in one of the massive hallways leading to the gambling salons.

There weren’t many people milling about this time of night, most courtiers too preoccupied with cards and champagne to be meandering in the corridors. Even so, each face we passed fueled my nerves until they were ready to burst straight through my skin.

My hands itched to reach out and grasp Renée's fingers, much as I used to when I was younger and my heart began its familiar panicked stutter. But I was a grown man of marriageable age, and nothing would draw attention to us quite like me clinging to my twin sister for comfort. I settled for shoving my hands into the pockets of my breeches, gripping my thighs through the powder blue muslin as we entered the salon.

At first, no one paid us any mind. The room was choked with courtiers in various states of drunkenness, all crowded around tables of faro, whist, and roulette, coupes of champagne clutched precariously between fingertips and silk fans waving from jewel-encrusted wrists. Though it was early July, the room was near stifling with a mixture of candles and body heat. Off in the corner, someone's white pug had gotten loose and was pissing against the crimson damask walls.

We wove our way through the throngs of people, neither Renée nor I socially conscious enough to care whenever we elbowed a gentleman in the head or stepped on a lady’s skirt. I should have been preoccupied with finding anyone who was present at the party last night, but my attention was directed entirely on the overflowing coupes of champagne sitting atop the silver trays servants carried around the room. 

Though it was against my better judgment to drink in public, fear for my brother overtook my rationality. I plucked two coupes off the tray, downing them one after the other before Renée had the chance to notice what I’d done—and damn near tripped over the person standing in front of me. 

He turned, frowning and making a great show of smoothing out his hair, though not a single strand had come loose in our brief collision. I swallowed. It was Mathieu de Coligny, the son of Comte de Coligny. And incidentally, the very person the comte’s coachman was waiting for the night he was supposedly killed by my brother. 

“Olivier d’Aumont. Pleasure.” Mathieu sniffed, turning up his nose like he smelled something foul.

This is Mathieu de Coligny! a voice screamed from the back of my mind. You can tell him your brother is innocent and beg him to speak to his father about it. He may not like your family much, but he has to know Étienne would never kill anyone. He has to.

But my tongue was a dead thing, stuck to the bottom of my mouth like an anchor thrown into the sea. All I could think to say was, “Yes, good evening, Mathieu. Wonderful coat you have on tonight. Really brings out the judgment in your eyes.”

Though I hadn’t thought it possible, his nose twitched up higher. “I’m aware we are the same age, but seeing as I’m your better, I would prefer if you addressed me as Monsieur de Coligny.”

I nearly laughed at the word better. It was no secret Comte de Coligny had been steadily losing influence and power in court over the years—even I was able to pick up on that from the words whispered and whipped at Mathieu’s back during my family’s parties. Really, the only difference between his family and mine was that my parents decided to embrace their fall from grace, and the Colignys still acted like the world was expected to bow and tremble at the tips of their red-heeled shoes.

Unfortunately, none of that changed the fact that Mathieu could be the key to getting my brother released from the Bastille. 

“Right. Sorry, Mathieu—I mean, Monsieur de Coligny.” Tell him! the voice screamed again. Say something! Anything at all. “You have to tell your father Étienne didn’t kill your coachman. It may seem like he did because he had a blood-covered dagger with him and ran from the police. But he didn’t. If you knew him—”

I stopped. The last thing I wanted was to make the situation worse than it was by discussing the nuances of our family to someone who wouldn’t understand. 

Mathieu would never learn about the time Étienne saved me from drowning in the lake behind our country château in Somme, or about the years Renée and I snuck into Étienne’s room when there was a thunderstorm to huddle under the covers until it passed. I’d never tell Mathieu about the elaborate lie Étienne came up with to get me out of trouble when I decided the first boy to make our sister cry would look better with a broken nose. 

Nor would I ever say that without Étienne and Renée, I’d be nothing at all. 

Mathieu snorted. “What makes you think I’d do anything to help you? Besides, Father won’t listen. All he ever cares about these days is working on those clocks of his.” 

“His clocks?”

“Nothing,” Mathieu snapped. “I have no interest in hearing about your family’s murderous ward. It’s a wonder you decided to show yourself in Versailles after what he did.” 

My face fell. “He didn’t do anything.” 

“And what proof do you have of that?” 

“I don’t have any proof but—” 

“My coachman is dead because your family decided to bring someone like him into their home.” 

I stilled. “Someone like him? What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You know exactly what it means. Why, I heard just last week some other dark-skinned ruffians were found robbing a poor Frenchman’s carriage. It’s simply in their nature. I’m certain the king will think the same.” He pushed past me, heading in the direction of a lacquered-covered card table. “Good day, Monsieur d’Aumont.”

“My brother didn’t murder anyone, you raging buffoon!” I called after him. “There was someone else with him that night, and I could tell you about it if you would just listen.” 

“Olivier,” Renée hissed, grabbing my sleeve and pulling me away. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help our brother.” I tugged at my cravat, but the rush of air left my skin no cooler than it was before. “Can you fetch me a glass of champagne? I don’t believe I can move.”

“No, I cannot fetch you a glass of champagne. You’re causing people to stare.”

“People are staring?”

Everything in me was screaming not to, but I flicked my eyes around the salon anyway—and found Renée was right. Everyone was staring. In typical society fashion, people were attempting to be discreet about it, glancing up every now and then while keeping their whispers contained behind fans and gloved hands. But I knew.

An all too familiar, and far too frequent, sense of dread washed over me, each pair of eyes burning into my back like the tips of a hundred lit cigars. I could almost hear their whispers, nipping at my ears as they always did when my family was near, hoping my nerves wouldn’t act up or they wouldn’t be forced into polite conversation with Étienne. Hoping the disgraced d’Aumont family wouldn’t ruin their fun.

It was ridiculous. These were the same people who had partied and drank too much and passed out on our floors the night before. The same people who, without fail, made it a point to show themselves at our parents’ masquerades. To them, engaging in illicit activities at the home of a disgraced noble family was exciting and daring, like leaping in front of a moving carriage. That’s what the parties were for, after all. An excuse to dance and drink and dabble in things that would never be permitted behind the gilded doors of Versailles. 

The parties were my parents’ private little joke, a way to make it obvious they didn’t care what society had to say about them—about how they ruined themselves by choosing a boy with brown skin over court prestige; how it was an abomination to raise their children away from prying eyes. And society had fallen for the enticing mystery and scandal of it all, just as my parents had suspected they would. But when manners and decorum were once again in play, society went right back to pretending as if we didn’t exist. Or worse, pretending as if a pestilent sickness trailed in our wake whenever we ventured outside. And my brother bore the brunt of that burden twofold.

Now, everyone was staring at me. Everyone was goddamn staring at me, and I was stuck in this stifling palace with these awful people who thought my brother was a murderer, all because he didn’t look like the rest of them. I was trapped.

Trapped, trapped, trapped.

I clutched my hand around Renée's arm, not caring in the least about remaining dignified.

“Renée,” I whispered. “Now I’m quite certain I can’t move.”

The annoyance on her face disappeared in an instant. “Do you feel unwell? Is it happening again?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I. . . I can’t—”

I took a deep breath, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart pounded against my palm like a trapped hummingbird. Étienne had been arrested and everyone thought he was a killer and I couldn’t help him because I was too ill and strange and abysmal at conversing with people to be of much use. 

Dammit.

“We can leave if you wish,” Renée said, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.

“No.” I bit down hard on my bottom lip. Blood brushed against my tongue, salty and hot. “We have to help Étienne.”

Renée’s eyes widened when they fell on my face. I was sure I looked a fright, standing in the middle of the salon and sweating underneath my godforsaken cravat. 

“Yellow canary. Crested canary,” I whispered, desperately trying to picture each bird as it flew through our family’s aviary. The shape of their feathers; the sound of their song. Anything that could distract me from the feel of my heartbeat pounding in my throat. “Swiss frill canary. Nightingale. Blue. . . blue—” I stopped. What was that bird called? What was it called?  

Étienne knew. He knew the name of every bird in our aviary and would remind me whenever my memory gave way to panic. But he wasn’t here now, and his absence was a heavy, choking weight on my chest.

“Renée.” I dragged my hand down to her wrist, nails digging into the skin. My heart was beating so fast, I could taste it on my tongue. “I don’t remember what the bird is called.” 

With what I assumed was piss poor thinking on her part, Renée darted to the lone pug trailing in between the gambling tables and snatched it up, brandishing it in the air and waving it about. “Whose dog is this?” she called. “Has someone lost a dog?”

The animal didn’t start barking so much as screeching, as if my sister was torturing it and not simply swinging it around above her head. But it did the trick, and in under a second, everyone’s eyes left me and went to my twin sister as she ran across the salon with a screaming pug.

I stumbled into the hallway, falling to the floor and bringing my legs up to my chest. For a few minutes, I stayed in that position, swallowing back my panicked screams. How could I stop the attacks if Étienne wasn’t here and I was too much of a disaster to calm myself down? How could I do any of this without him? 

Renée arrived at my side, rubbing her hand in circles along my back. “I don’t know birds as well as Étienne does,” she said, “but I’m here, and I’m not going to leave you.”

“I know. I—” I took a breath, holding it in until it ached against my lungs. The room came back into focus bit by bit. “I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to apologize,” she said. “You can’t stop the way you feel.”

“I tried to stay calm, but there were so many people in there, and I knew they were all gossiping about us, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Étienne. What if he doesn’t get released? What if we never find out what happened? What if he can never come home?” I dug my fingernails into the skin of my forearm. “Why am I always too weak to help?”

Renée shook her head. “You are helping, and it isn’t your fault. We can ask them another time. I forgot no one wants anything to do with our family unless they’re using our parents’ parties to pretend their lives aren’t as boring as they actually are.”

“But—”

“I can help you.”

I whipped my head around, my gaze landing on Madeleine de Froix standing just outside the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her orange bodice.

“What?” Renée asked, eyes wide. Though she tried to hide it, I didn’t miss how her breath caught in her throat.

“I can help you,” Madeleine repeated. “My father is close with the prison governor at the Bastille, and I overheard them talking. I know more about what happened to Comte de Coligny’s coachman.”